Plummet

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I scream as I’m thrown face down on the floor toward the rear of the fort.

 Just a moment ago I was crouching on the adapted bike seat which shoves itself far higher into a man’s back-end than any object really should go.

 I was scanning the densely foggy sky for aircraft from the cramped tail-gunner’s compartment of Skippy, my flying fortress.

 Watching the planes to our right and left, I was in a kneeling position, looking out over my guns.

 . . .

 We’re spiraling and falling.

 Flashes of blue, green and brown shoot through the tail window.

 The plane is spinning fast!

 Whatever happened threw me flat on my face. 

 Twisting to the right in a tight circle, the fortress spin broke the ammo trunk loose, so it’s now pinning me to the left wall of the compartment.

 I need to grab my parachute.

 I can’t move.

 How will I get to my chute?

 Impossible to move, my body is pinned flat against the wall.

 I must get to my chute!

 Straining every muscle, I try to shove or lift the ammo trunk with all my force.

 Nothing, I’m not moving.

 I try again, shoving with all my might against the plane’s ribbed interior.

 Nothing.

 I have to keep trying!

 Using every ounce of strength within, my whole body shoves against the wall and the ammo trunk; legs, arms, back, even the back of my head, but I can’t move it.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t just stay here while this plane crashes.

 . . .

 I can’t move and I can’t stay.

 . . .

 I have to move.

 With what’s left of my energy, I compel myself off the wall, pushing every last sinew until the heat of the pain forces me to stop.

 I can’t.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t get out.

 I can’t stop this.

 . . .

 Is this it?

 Falling to the ground in a plummeting plane is how I die.

 This is how I die.

 THIS IS HOW I DIE! I yell, girding myself with the vocalization of this realization.

 In another few minutes I’ll be dead.

 . . .

 Time is slowing down.

 Looking up through the tail window I can see only fog above.

 There is no sense of place.

 No here, nor there.

 Do not be anxious about anything.

 In every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to G-d.

 The ribs of the plane dig into my body as I’m forced ever more against its hard metal walls.

 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your G-d will be with you wherever you go.”

 Images begin streaking across my mind.

 My mom’s face.

 My dad reaching out his hand to me as I prepared to board the train when I left for basic training.

 The softness of Emily’s lips when we last held each other.

 “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

 What have I done with this life?

 I could have given the toy car back to Jack.

 . . .

 Why did I not ask Emily to marry me?

 . . .

 What difference have I made?

 . . .

 “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your G-d goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

 . . .

 What is this all for?

 . . .

 I’m not getting back to Kentucky after all, am I?

 . . .

 Why is this taking so long?

 If I’m going to die, why does it have to take so long?

 Get it over with!

 GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY!

 This is not ok.

 Come on!

 HURRY UP, DAMN IT!

 . . .

 “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your G-d. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 . . .

 Time is fascinating.

 Most of it we don’t even notice.

 It goes by.

 Yet, at the end, it takes FOREVER!

 If it had taken this long through everyday life, I’d be dead by now.

 . . .

 WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?

 . . .

 Going to college is no longer on the table.

 I would have liked college; the learning, the slower pace, the peace.

 This falling is peaceful.

 . . .

 Am I already dead?

 Is this what death feels like, this peace?

 The plane has been plummeting for so long, maybe I’m already dead.

 If this is death . . . I’m ok with it.

 . . .

 A raspy swishing sound breaks my thoughts.

 Looking out, no longer up, through the window I see the tops of trees float away as the fort scrapes along them.

 GROUND!

 . . .

 We’re gliding down!

 . . .

 WE’RE NOT FALLING, WE’RE GLIDING DOWN! I yell out.

 Just then, the plane comes to an abrupt and jerked halt.

 Thrown forward, I bump my chin against a side-rib of the plane too hard, but the ammo trunk is moved a bit in the crash.

 That’ll bruise.

 . . .

 We’re on the ground!

 WE’RE ON THE GROUND! I yell.

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 . . .

 I’ve got to get out.

 The ship might be on fire.

 Shoving with what energy I have left, I’m able to nudge the ammo trunk a bit.

 It’s working now!

 Gathering all the strength in my arms and legs, I shove again.

 Again, a bit of a nudge.

 Keep at it.

 Use it all up, get out!

 UUURRRGGGG!!!!! I grunt as I shove again.

 More movement, it’s sliding now.

 AAAUUURRRHHHGGGHH!

 I GOT IT!

 I can rise!

 The ammo trunk is finally off of me.

 Raising my sore, and exhausted body off the wall of the downed fort, I dig my way out of the strewn shell casings, broken ventilation station, and other debris which had been tossed about as the plane spiraled down.

 My eyes scan the space looking toward the bulkhead door.

 Wow, the side of the ship is bashed in.

 Glad I wasn’t pinned against that wall.

 Turning the handle on the bulkhead door, I’m shocked by what I see.

 Or, don’t see:

 THERE’S NO PLANE!

 . . .

 The tail must have come apart from the rest of the plane, coming down by itself.

 What happened to the rest of the crew?

 As I remove my oxygen mask and headset, I scan the wreckage for another pair of shoes.

 Picking them up, I then exit the tail compartment of what’s left of Skippy.

 I gotta get away from here.

Sgt. James Radey was the tail gunner of “Skippy” a B-17 from the 301st Bomb Group, 253rd Bomb Squadron. He became the only survivor of his crew on January 11, 1944 when his squadron was in route over Greece. Visibility due to weather was barely past the wingtips of the aircraft, causing two bomb groups to collide head-on. Eight B-17s were destroyed, claiming 64 airmen’s lives. 17 men survived the crashes, Raley the only one to do so without using his parachute. Walking away from a four-mile fall in the broken tail section of a destroyed bomber, Raley suffered a cut to his chin and some bruises on his shoulder. Miraculously, the bomber’s ripped away tail section, with Raley inside, had just the right lift and weight distribution for it to “float like a leaf” and land relatively softly in a clump of pine trees. This was Raley’s 13th mission.

After the war, Raley visited the families of all of his lost crew, married, wrote an autobiography of his experience and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force after serving in Korea and Vietnam. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. From the day of the crash onward, he always considered 13 his lucky number.

A Little Something

Between coughs she softly offers, “Make yourself at home, Sweetheaaart” from chapped lips complementing a face that could be young, yet looks aged by experience. Wrinkles fail to hide under a thin layer of cheap powder, with cheeks made falsely red by who knows what means.

She’s perfect!

Walking the darkened streets of a run-down, working-class Paris neighborhood on the Left Bank, I met Edith. She is among the many haggard looking and hardworking women striving to make a living from whichever occupying army’s young men happen to be in town.

As she closes the door to her room, she unwraps a red shawl from her shoulders, revealing winter-dry skin pressed hard under the straps of a revealing lingerie bra. Ripples of fatty tissue betray cooperation and accommodation to any and all who may offer calorie-rich foods in exchange for services.

“Please utilize the basin to clean,” she suggests while removing first her left, then her right black high-heeled shoes. Red stockings fit tight over her bulging legs. From a few tears protrudes more fatty tissue, as if trying to escape weaved imprisonment of fine fabric. 

Where would she have gotten such stockings?

Making my way over to the washbasin, I can’t help but look around the small cold room nestled on the fifth floor of a dilapidated walk-up, missing some units from bombs and other war damage. The structure matches its inhabitants. On the way to this room, I saw others in the hall: broken men, working women, starving children, all of them lice ridden, and coughing. Peeling wallpaper, dirty sheets on the bed and a crack in the ceiling tell a story that could be the same story Edith tells about herself: A once beautiful object ruined by the touch of war.

This may work!

Moving toward me from where she had been undressing, she twirls her red shawl atop the one light bulb centered in the ceiling. Its white hue quickly changes to reddish, illuminating the room in a soft seductive tint. Her approach slows as graceful strides offer a glimpse of a sensual and cultured past.

What was she before the war?

She reaches out her right hand to mine, grasping the cloth and my hand to help me wash my now bare chest. Our faces brush gently. She turns her eyes toward mine, stares at me directly, and coughs in my open mouth, coating my tongue with phlegm, which I quickly swallow.

“How sick would you like to be, my dear?” she asks while moving the damp cloth down to my left thigh.

How sick would I like to be? I wanted to get something to take me out of the war, but how much?

She sees I’m thinking, debating, contemplating. Removing the cloth from me, she runs it with force between her legs.

“Would you like to be out of the line or blind?” she offers, as if I were choosing a bottle of fine wine.

I don’t want to be blind, but getting out of the line should be good enough.

“Out of the line,” I declare with a sense of urgency as she raises the cloth toward my face.

She lowers the cloth before handing it to me.

“Rub this upon your genitals. That should do the trick.”

Looking down at the damp and soiled cloth, I wonder if my fingers are already contaminated.

I’ll have to wash my hands right away.

Her stare catches my pause.

“It’s alright my dear, it doesn’t hurt a bit,” she says as her hand guides mine toward my genitals.

She stares into my eyes while hand-in-hand we rub the damp cloth on my soft skin, making sure to cover the area as thoroughly as possible.

This feels surprisingly good.

Blue radiance emanates from her sensual touch and milky eyes.

I could love such a woman.

She coughs again; this time not on purpose. Phlegm falls upon my cheek, wetting my face before it drips down to my collarbone.

“That one is on the house,” she jokingly declares.

*****

Poster meant to deter soldiers from distractions

http://worldwartwo.filminspector.com/2013_08_01_archive.html

In war, people often take steps to protect themselves they would not otherwise have even considered. During World War II, a thriving trade in venereal disease plagued all armies. Men on leave would often prefer the companionship of infected prostitutes rather than healthy ones since soldiers could use illness to evade service at the front.

In 1944, the U.S. Army struggled to shut down the trade in coughed-up phlegm used to infect soldiers with Tuberculosis. The most grotesque problem, though, was the trade in gonococcal pus, which soldiers smeared into their genitals in the hope of ending up in the hospital. Those who were desperate rubbed it in their eyes, which often led to lifelong blindness. It wasn’t just American soldiers who participated in this trade, but those of all sides. Beyond the soldiers, there was a thriving black market for these items, as well as a solid supply base of desperately hungry women left behind by the ravages of war. War touches us in ways we’d never imagine, and sometimes would prefer to forget.

Cher Ami

Cher Ami

Taking off with precious cargo invites German fire right away.

At least let me get airborne before opening up on me you Huns!

I bank right, hoping to avoid the barrage of small-arms fire that doomed my predecessors.

Yet, as I turn the bullets streak past me.

My skin gets goosebumps, my eyes water, and my heart races.

How am I going to get out of here alive?

How am I going to get back to our lines?

How am I going to succeed when others failed?

I turn sharply left, attempting to zig-zag in order to avoid the constant fire.

Just as I finish my zag, a round clips my leg.

AAAaaarrggghhhh!

The shock of the impact sends me fluttering, as I fall to the ground.

I’m not giving up you bastards!

Dangling from a tendon, my injured leg still holds my precious cargo.

I’m going to make it. I’m going to get out of here!

Those huns think they shot me down.

I look up at the sky, waddle on my one good leg, and lift off again, this time aiming straight up.

I’m going to gain altitude, rather than maneuver this time. I just have to get out of range fast!

The fire starts up again.

They’re not giving up, neither will I!

Higher, higher, and higher still, I soar into the sky above the stranded men, and those attempting to destroy them.

The Germans keep up their deadly fire as I rise above it all.

Higher, I must get higher!

A round pierces my breast bone, coming out my left eye. I lose altitude.

I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything. I just need to get to the Command Headquarters at full speed. Nothing else matters!

The bullets stop streaking nearby.

I must be high enough!

Banking again, I head toward headquarters.

Twenty-five miles to go, just twenty-five miles.

My leg begins hurting, the bullet wound in my chest and eye stings.

I must make it, for my boys, I must make it!

I am all they have for hope. Without me, they are doomed.

Before I know it, I see the command headquarters, and my loft just behind the tent.

I fly directly in, not bothering to stop on the perch outside as I enter.

The bell rings, announcing my arrival.

I collapse on the floor of the loft.

I made it. I still have the precious cargo dangling from my shattered leg. My boys will live.

A soldier comes to read the latest message from the front located in the silver canister on my leg. When he sees me with my shattered leg, blood streaming from the bullet wound, and missing eye, he gasps.

“Cher Ami, you’ve returned to us!” he cries out, as he gingerly removes the message from my dangling leg.

I’ve done my job. I made it.

*****

On October 3, 1918, during the Argonne Offensive, Major Charles White Whittlesey [DL1] was trapped with 500 men in a small depression on the side of a hill behind enemy lines with little food or ammunition. They were under constant enemy fire, while also receiving fire from allied artillery who did not know their location. Surrounded by the Germans, many were killed and wounded in the first day and by the second day, more than half of the unit was injured or killed. Whittlesey had three carrier pigeons at his disposal to dispatch messages, but the first and second pigeons were shot down by the Germans before they could make it off the battlefield. Only one homing pigeon was left: "Cher Ami". She was dispatched with a note in a canister on her left leg, “We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven's sake, stop it.”

As Cher Ami took off, she was immediately fired upon by the surrounding Germans. She flew through the unrelenting fire until she was hit and fell to the ground. After a few moments she took flight again, evacuating the battlefield and returning to her loft with her precious cargo in the silver canister attached to her now shattered leg. When she arrived back at her loft at division headquarters 25 miles to the rear in just 25 minutes, she was found to have been shot through the heart, missing one eye, and her leg with the message on it was hanging by a tendon. Despite her injury, her mission was a success. The message she carried helped save the lives of 194 men from her unit.

Cher Ami became the hero of the 77th Infantry Division[DL2] . Army medics endeavored to saver her life, but they could not save her leg. They then carved a small wooden one for her. When she recovered enough to travel, the now one-legged bird was put on a boat to the United States, with General John J. Pershing [DL3] personally seeing Cher Ami off as she departed France.

Cher Ami (French masculine for Dear Friend) was one of approximately 600 homing pigeons donated to the U.S. Army Signal Corps by the pigeon fanciers of Britain. Originally assumed to be male, Cher Ami turned out to be a female pigeon. Upon arriving in the United States, Cher Ami was awarded the Croix de Guerre[DL4]  Medal with a palm Oak Leaf Cluster, for her heroic service in delivering 12 important messages in Verdun. She also received the Silver Star from General Pershing. She died at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, on June 13, 1919 from the wounds she received in battle. Cher Ami was later inducted into the Racing Pigeon Hall of Fame in 1931. She also received a gold medal from the Organized Bodies of American Racing Pigeon Fanciers in recognition of her extraordinary service during World War I.

Cher Ami as displayed in the Smithsonian Museum

Cher Ami is not the only animal recognized for gallantry, or even the only pigeon. Many animals have given their lives in sacrifice to human wars. The United Kingdom recognizes these animals through the Dickin’s Medal, of which there are 32 pigeon recipients from World War II alone.

To American schoolchildren of the 1920s and 1930s, Cher Ami was as well known as any human World War I heroes. Cher Ami's body was later mounted by a taxidermist and enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution[DL5] . It is currently on display with that of Sergeant Stubby[DL6]  in the National Museum of American History[DL7] 's Price of Freedom exhibit.